Sunday, February 28, 2010

Nothing is matching my mood tonight. Which is one of the desire for intense study and diligence.

I've been into the Ezekiel temple passages, Ezekiel 40 and following, for some time, and I've felt like studying that, as best as I can. It's minutes here, an hour there.

I have a great thing I got at Google called SketchUp, and someone made a model of the temple and environs. It's greatly helpful, since reading it in the Bible is a tough go without being able to visualize it accurately.

You get the SketchUp program at this link. Then the file that the program opens is at this link. You don't end up with a static picture like above, but a whole interactive set. Once you figure out the controls reasonably well, you can go places, walk up on the altar and look around, walk into the Holy of Holies and check it out, etc. There's all kinds of little places you can go, seeing it from many angles.

As far as making sense of the doorways, posts, etc., it is a terrific help.

One thing, though, it is tough to figure it out at first. Going up, going down, getting blocked by a pillar, losing your place. But keep working with the walking function and the looking around function, as well as the left button of the mouse and the shift key, and you can eventually get it. If not, there are helpful tabs at the top that let you go to the structure mentioned in particular verses.

So why am I so into this? I never was before. But the way I see it, without getting too far into it, these passages can teach us to be exact in our own temple, ourselves. That is, not just leaving our disciplines to chance or being lazy in our spiritual diligence, but being exact, precise, and focused. I'm not usually, by nature. But a little focus can be very helpful.

Another good way to train your thoughts is to listen to music. Such as Jimi Hendrix, who has a new album (!) coming out in March. I got the CD single from it today. And it goes right along with the whole temple thing.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

I've been involved in a plumbing project today, since there's ice in the pipes. That means the toilet isn't working in the sense of being able to drain. It could potentially be a mess, like if someone had to go, then went.

How much easier it was back in the days when we had the outhouse. Then the only thing that froze up was us, but fortunately we didn't literally freeze till we were on the way back to the house. It explains the motto on our family crest: "Step Lively!"

But with the passing of the good old days we have this new fangled system. So when the fangled gets tangled we suffer in a different way. Like trying to get it cleared out. We could wait till May ... or we can run hot water up the pipes until we clear the ice blockage.

I was manning the drain with another guy. Then he had to go on an errand, leaving it just me and the drain. I was sitting there thinking how low I was, right down with the foundation of the building. Me and a flashlight and a hose sticking in the drain. I could see the light bulb reflecting from the tiny pool at my feet.

It made me start thinking about the chakras, those energetic power centers in the body, the microcosm of a larger (presumably) macrocosm, that is the universe. I say 'presumably' because I'm never 100% sure the universe is actually larger than me, although the theory sounds at least reasonable.

I snapped a few pictures of it, including the one above. Look at the glistening of the outer ring. Then the energy of the serpentine hose pumping svadhisthana-like waters who knows where, an ice core somewhere up the line. The light dangling reflects itself, which I can cover with my thumb -- very cosmic. Many allusions from meditation suggest themselves.

Looking down at it, first I'm very impatient: "Get the ice melted please." Then with increased concentration, I'm thinking, "I'm here at the very base of the property, seeing my body's energy system mirrored at my feet." Let yourself go. Make the most of this time.

Friday, February 26, 2010

I went by a tiny little car lot today, out in the country. I think they had four or maybe five used cars for sale. A few pennants were flapping in the breeze.

I kept going but I started stewing over how small a car lot could be and still have it pay off. Like what if you only had one car to sell, that's it? One car on the lot, with a few light bulbs and pennants strung around to make it look like a proper car lot. Maybe a modest sign, "Gus's Used Cars -- Let's Deal."

So you pull in, assuming you have a car to get there in, and you check out the selection on the lot. It doesn't take long. So of course Gus comes hurrying out, wiping his mouth and hands from eating chicken. Both of you have your eye on the car -- both you and Gus -- because that's all there is. You're trying to think of something nice to say, perhaps, or maybe you're really interested in the car. And Gus is sizing you up for the angle that will be most suitable to make the sale.

We'll leave you standing there...

I went by a car rental place one time, and the way I remember it they only had one car. Take it or leave it. There it set, waiting to transport the first customer wherever he wanted to go. I was thinking that everyone has to start somewhere, but still it seems like you would start with at least two cars. But if you need to start with one car and build a fleet, or maybe you simply want to stick with one car so the work load won't be so great, it's up to you.

Personally, just speaking for myself, if I ran a car rental place I wouldn't want to disappoint all the other customers who might show up, assuming they would. It's great to have one satisfied customer, sure, but not that great, in my opinion, for the rest of the town to be complaining. Or making fun of a car rental with only one car.

It really struck me ... one measly car.

You could start a taxi service easy enough with just one car -- if you could manage to successfully negotiate all the city waivers. Then to disguise your tiny fleet, every other trip across town you could put a different advertising sign on the doors and people would think there was more than one car. Although, again, it'd be bad for business if you started getting more calls than you could handle.

They'd be saying, "We've seen taxis all over town. What'd'ya mean it'll be four hours?"

I went by a tiny little car lot today, out in the country. I think they had four or maybe five used cars for sale.

It made me wonder how small a car lot could be and still have it pay off. Like what if you only had one car? One car on the lot, with a few light bulbs and pennants strung around to make it look like a proper car lot. Maybe a modest sign, "Gus's Used Cars -- Let's Deal."

So you pull in, assuming you have a car to get there in, and you check out the lot. Of course Gus comes hurrying out, wiping his mouth and hands from eating chicken. Both of you have your eye on the car -- you and Gus -- because that's all there is. You're trying to think of something nice to say, perhaps, or maybe you're really interested. Gus is sizing you up for the angle that will most likely make the sale.

I went by a car rental place one time, and it seems like they only had one car. There it set, waiting to take the first customer wherever he wanted to go. We were thinking that everyone has to start somewhere. If you need to start with one car and build a fleet, or maybe you'll just stick with one car so the work load won't be so great, it's up to you.

Personally, if I had a car rental place I wouldn't want to disappoint all the other customers who might show up. It's great to have one satisfied customer, sure, but not that great, in my opinion, for the rest of the town to be complaining.

You could start a taxi service easy enough with one car -- if you could manage to get all the city waivers. Every other trip across town you could put a different advertising sign on the doors and people would think there was more than one car. It'd be bad for business, again, if you had a lot more calls than you could handle.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

We've all seen the old movies where the honeymoon couple puts a "Do Not Disturb" sign on their door. Then they shut the door and we're left to imagine what's going on in there. I would guess that whatever it is is pretty lascivious.

There's a scene in one of Elvis' movies, "Girl Happy," and he even sings a song called "Do Not Disturb." Part of the lyrics is: "Do not disturb, hang a sign on your door. Do not disturb, it's time to make love, and I can't wait ... a minute more." Now that's lascivious.

I've been to motels, of course -- most of us have at least one motel stay in our history -- and there'll be a "Do Not Disturb" sign there. As far as I'm concerned you may as well just step out in the hall and announce to the motel what you're doing in there. Because it can't be anything good.

You'd be down for the continental breakfast later and everyone would be staring at you, because of whatever they imagine must have been going on just minutes before. Did they wash up? And if you have that healthy glow like they show in Viagra commercials, when the guy shows up for work the morning after, they'd probably lose their appetite. This is only minutes later!

What's preferable from the privacy point of view, to me, is just leave the sign alone and dead bolt the door. Then the only one who can figure out your activities inside is the maid, and they never speak. They just make hand signals as they're going door to door with their cart and supplies, as if to say, "I've seen everything but I'm sworn to secrecy."

Now, someone will probably say that a "Do Not Disturb" sign could be used for other reasons. Like if you're super tired, you've been on the road, and say you got in late, you checked in at 3 in the morning and you don't want up when the maid comes around at 8 or 9. To which I would reply, "Yeah, sure, we all know what's really going on."

I myself have never ever put a "Do Not Disturb" sign out. I see them and leave them on the inside of the room, like they're radioactive. I like my privacy. And I wouldn't be crowing about it to the world for anything. You see one of those signs and it's the same as them saying, "Guess what's going on in my room, not that you'd need three guesses." Or maybe you do need three guesses, but the first two don't count.

The worst thing you can see is just a guy checking in by himself and he has a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door. You immediately suspect he's got a date, with a doll. It's disgusting. That's a room that needs to be completely disinfected.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Since I don't run anything "blue," I'm going to have to be extra careful with this post. So I'll say what I can, then try to leave the rest to your imagination.

Here's an interesting movie ad:

In this particular ad it was the first feature of a triple bill. The ad is from The Evening Journal, Lubbock, Texas, April 4, 1939, p. 10.

The movie stars beautiful Elaine Barrie Barrymore "and that comedy favorite" Trixie Friganza. In the course of the film Elaine shows us the intriguing and proper way to disrobe in the boudoir, while Trixie has a bad time of it in her room.

It's mostly narration by a male narrator and silence from the two stars, but Trixie emits a few discouraging groans and a few words of frustration with her presentation.

The narrator has a lot of admiration for Elaine, but nothing but jokes for Trixie.

About Trixie, he says, "That other celebrated taker-offer may be able to show us a few other wrinkles ... These ladies are all here to learn how to undress, they're not interested in how to take down an awning ... Isn't that awful. The S.S. Normandy is in ... Really ladies, I'm terribly sorry. This sequence has turned out to be a perfect bust. Well, anyway, a bust."

Then when we see the lovely Miss Barrie she's taking off and rolling her stockings. The announcer says something is coming off, "Oh yes, of course, the stockings. She has lovely eyes, don't you think? Well, to tell you the truth, I hadn't noticed them myself. There's a delightful nonchalance about this little lady. A studied indifference that is certainly effective. Invariably she keeps you guessing as to what she'll do next. A trick which never fails to intrigue the average husband. When Elaine rolls them, they stay rolled." Then with a laugh, "I mean the stockings, of course."

The film is a short film, and someone has it at YouTube, in two parts:

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

I was looking at some old pictures of us -- including me -- today from years ago. For a while there it looked like we let people take pictures of us without acting self-conscious, shy, and ugly. (That's not me in the picture).

The big insight I had -- and I get this insight once in a while, so it's not new -- is how beautiful we were back then. I mean gorgeous beautiful. I'm looking at some pictures of me (not included at the website here) and I am stunned at how great I look. It's amazing.

But then, we think we get old and ugly, old and hideous, etc. And suddenly we're very self-conscious and shy, saying, "Please don't take my picture."

The insight mentioned above isn't just how beautiful we were back then, but how beautiful we must be now, if we would only realize it. Look at it this way: Back then we weren't walking around saying how beautiful we were. We weren't. In fact we were thinking others were so much better looking than us. We had an inferiority complex. Or we felt like 'if this was different' or 'that was different,' then we'd be content. In other words, we were thinking back then just like we're thinking now!

And what we ought to have been thinking then is how beautiful we are. And what we ought to be thinking now is how beautiful we are. It's a simple truth, and it is a truth. We were beautiful, gorgeous then. And if we could only believe it, we're beautiful and gorgeous now.

I would love to collect people if I could. If somehow you could latch on to them without hurting or hindering them and keep a copy of them in a big jar, maybe like the City of Kandor from Superman comics, that'd be great. Or you've got a big file of them, where no one gets hurt, no one suffers, and everyone lives happily as their beautiful selves. Because I guess I love people more than I usually think I do.

It's sometimes tough to be around people, though, because they have their own thing and they're off on it. You've got to keep your distance. You can't go up and say weird things like "I'd love to collect you." Or they'd send someone over to collect you, in a nice big file at the county jail!

Wouldn't it be great to be able to tell people how utterly beautiful they are?! I think it would. I saw a stunning couple yesterday at a function. And another guy went up and told them how "sharp a couple" they were. I thought, Hmm, that's probably not appropriate, but he was utterly right. This couple looked like a million bucks. I wanted to say something like that myself. Like "You two are DROP DEAD STUNNING," but I kept my lip zipped, since our typical thing is not to comment on people's appearance.

And everyone's got it. Even the craggiest, craziest looking person, has something intrinsically wonderful about them. Like me, or like I sometimes imagine I look. I have problems with my appearance. The big danger is to take a picture of me now, then look at it in 20 years and have to say, "Wow! I was beautiful back then!"

It happens. You're beautiful right now.

Note on the Photo: I don't know this young lady. This is a picture I got at an antique store. So in a very mild, limited way, I do collect people. It's quite a photo, I think. The room is so spartan and elementary. She's apparently dressed for Easter, with the bonnet. But she reminds me of Little Bo Peep. Another weird aspect of the picture is how she seems to meld right into the couch.

Monday, February 22, 2010

The cards are shuffled one time. Then a card is withdrawn from the top of the deck, Death.

We put the Death card back and shuffle a few more times. This time we pull a card from the middle somewhere, quite at random, Death.

We put it back in the deck and shuffle them for about an hour, getting the deck so mixed up, as mixed up as possible, and pull out a card, concentrating on every other card there is, and it comes out Death.

We get an automatic shuffler. Then we shuffle the cards so many times there's no way they can't be random beyond all degree, all imagination. Yet when the card is pulled out, again it's Death.

The shuffler has a higher speed, so high, so fast, that the cards are whizzing by, virtually turning to butter like Sambo's tigers. I blink my eyes really fast and can actually see a stick of butter in the very heart of the thing, appearing then being enfolded back in.

When we turn the shuffler off, it's steaming, dripping, and giving up the ghost. We pick the first buttery card, which is Death.

Now I finally throw out the Death card and pull again, and it's Death. They're all Death cards, one after another, the whole drippy, buttery deck is nothing but Death. Everywhere, Death cards!

Sunday, February 21, 2010

I was looking at something on a microfilmed newspaper online today, more or less at random. I went from one page to another. Then I noticed this little tragedy, page 4, The Waterloo Daily Courier, Waterloo, Iowa, June 1, 1895.

I was a little sorry I saw it because I knew I'd be wasting some more time to try to discover how it turned out. Surely, I thought, the trial went on for years, so I was searching for 10 years after that. It sounds, like this article says, a little suspicious, since someone said they'd been quarreling bitterly of late.

That's one of the reasons I don't want to keep a loaded gun by my bed. The weird dreams I have, I could wake up at any minute and kill everyone I know. Then what do I say? I didn't know what I was doing? I thought it was a burglar?

That's a tragic story, the story of Mr. Lewis Hall. I couldn't find anything on the web about him other than the newspaper story. The short story: He's in Marshalltown, Iowa, he kills someone, and that's it.

Later in the day, I took up the search again, and managed to find one more article:

This is pretty close in time to the other article. June 6, 1895, p. 6, The Jewell Record, Jewell, Iowa.

So within a week it looks like it was resolved. It doesn't say how it happened, but somehow the coroner's jury exonerated Mr. Hall.

So apparently there's no mystery to it. That's it. He was able to go on from that point, his record clear, I assume, and eventually died himself.

What a terrible feeling it must have been, though, to know that that happened. That you accidentally killed your wife one night, thinking she was a burglar. What do you tell the women you meet in the future? "I'm a widower." "Oh, what happened?" "I'd rather you didn't ask."

Saturday, February 20, 2010

People who collect sand as a hobby are known as arenophiles or psammophiles.

That's an interesting, if obscure hobby. I'm getting older everyday and I'd never heard of it.

I went there to look up "sand" because it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know why we have sand. Think about it. We've got these countless little tiny rocks and no one ever wonders why. So I'm wondering, are they just rocks whose growth was stunted somehow? Maybe a full grown rock needs to attract to itself many smaller rocks to be all it can be. Which doesn't sound likely. And yet there are all these tiny rocks that never amount to much.

Sand is one of those things that is so omnipresent that we overlook it, at least I do. You overlook it until it annoys you, then it's hard to get rid of it. I can be throwing sand on some ice, and next thing you know I've got some in my coat pocket, my boots, my socks, stuck under my fingernails, everywhere. I get sand in my bed somehow -- and it only takes a few little pieces -- and I can't get to sleep, feeling it down by my feet.

You can pick up a handful of sand and look at it. You can look at an individual piece. Then you close your hand and you'll never see that piece again. It's everywhere, yet it's constantly overlooked.

I walked in some sand today that someone had scattered on the ice. It immediately helps of course. Ice without sand is slick as snot. But with some sand on it, you get the traction, because, I guess, the molecules of the sand and ice are in opposition. Sand digs in and nullifies the slick molecules of ice. It gives a welcome buffer zone to your boots, taking the place that the ice would normally be rubbing against.

We used to play in the sand -- and hope that a cat hadn't been there before.

Now I learn there are people who collect sand. My guess, they collect it for its mineral and geological story, not simply because they like tiny rocks. But there could be some who have other interests.

I know sand is a fun thing to mess with, if it's clean. Like the sand on a nice beach. To pick it up and let it run through your hands is a nice feeling.

Friday, February 19, 2010

I think I've come to a very important milestone in my daily, incessant blog writing.

The milestone is this, that I've forgotten what I've written. I was just looking at some headers from things I wrote at the beginning of the month, and I couldn't remember what they were till I looked. If I were to look back further, who knows, it could be anything, I wouldn't remember.

I know before in my life, I think I remembered everything I ever did. So I could look at something and remember what it was perfectly. There wasn't any question. But with quantity, that's what you get. Your mind can only hold a limited number of things in its reserve without more cues, so a title won't necessarily do it anymore.

When we discuss what the authors of the past wrote, we sometimes say it in present tense, like this: "Emerson says, 'Hi, this is Emerson, I'm about to write another one of my very great essays.'" Or a better quote than that. So we're discussing that quote in its context, the surrounding points, the overall theme, as though Emerson was totally centered and focused on it. But what if you brought Emerson here now and set all his books in front of him. He'd surely say, "I've written a lot of things, but it's been a long, long time ago. I'll have to review what it is before I make any comments."

The same thing could be said for anyone, painters, recording artists. "I recorded a lot of things back between 1912 and 1932. I don't remember everything, so I don't know what you're talking about."

I'm about to post this little article. How long will it take me to totally forget it?

Currently I'm feeling lonely. Except my dog Underbrush is here with me. I was looking at her and she was staring back at me. I was thinking about the thoughts she was thinking, just as I'd guess she was thinking about the thoughts I was thinking.

I was thinking any number of things about the dog. One, how present she is. It's a rare thing for her to be off in another part of the house. But it does happen. I also think about how vigilant she is, like when someone knocks at the door. Someone knocked at the door a bit ago with a question, but now he's gone, out in the cold somewhere. Probably in a heated room actually. The dog barked when he came, then quit when he left.

Any human contact would be good at this point. Not thieves or beggars though.

I've got a podcast going and a couple of guys are talking. They were recorded the other day sometime. They're winging it, it appears. If I were on a podcast I'd want to have it all sketched out, the definite things I was going to say, then I'd try to say them as casually and (apparently) spontaneously as possible.

When you're talking to somehow, it always pays to sound casual and spontaneous. Like when you're asking questions or commiserating. It's something I do, I can't help it. The guy at the door, I asked him casually and spontaneously how he avoids getting pneumonia. And he said, "Prayer, lots of prayer." I wonder, is that really it? He's out there working in the snow and he's praying that he won't get pneumonia.

It was nice to talk to him, even with Underbrush barking in the background, and even though it was a few seconds only. But I don't know, I don't think the conversation could've gone much farther, even if that's what he was there for.

We have an old expression in my part of the world. Like when something's confidential, we do say, "Between me and you and the fencepost." They have their own friends. They're dug in the ground and they stand there holding a fence forever.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

It seems like it would be a good idea to be turning, physically turning, maybe in circles, or turning something else.

Maybe I could twirl an open umbrella. That's always a refreshing thing to do. You give it a spin, it goes around in a pretty way. It feels light, breezy, and magical. An umbrella doesn't need much to spin in your hands, even though it doesn't spin very long.

I don't have a windmill and don't know where you get them. But they're fun to turn or to see blowing. We used to stick them out the window in the car. But if you're going too fast, they get caught in the wind and, theoretically, could explode into a ball of flames. If it were a really hot day.

Something that would be very easy for me to do would be to turn on a room fan or a ceiling fan. I read in a feng shui book about the good benefits of having a fan running in your room, even if you're not in there to get the immediate effects of it. If something like that is true, then maybe I'm on to a psychic truth in my sudden interest in having something turning.

OK, I went and turned on the ceiling fan in my room. It hasn't been on since fall.

But I could use some turning right where I am. There's nothing right here to turn. I'll check and see if I have a tiny fan I could bring in. Hmm, I don't see one.

Turn, turn, turn. That's a song, of course. A very philosophical song. And I remember a song from Jim Croce's first album (Capitol), "Spin, spin, spin, spin around." Any song with turning would be good. Just to watch a record going around would be refreshing.

I want to see something in a circular motion, a whoopee finger or an entire galaxy.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

A child of God, conscious of his or her place (his, in this case) in God, should not be worried to the point of having a sore stomach. He should not be worried to the point of a possibility of future ulcers.

I have so much worry tonight that it's not funny. And it's not welcome. I'm trying now to mentally/spiritually get rid of it. I told someone and she said, "I hope it works for you." I do too. I can't see why it wouldn't. I have the confidence to believe, the faith to believe that it will.

Part of it is viewing your life from a perspective different from just this [indicating my face and body] realm. There I picture the external me wandering through the world, beset on all sides by various dangers and challenges. At that point I am ego bound and bound to feel that wasting away feeling. Because the external me is facing the external it and there's no oneness; we are in a hostile opposition.

So in viewing your life differently from that, you want to see everything (and be convinced of) a more wholistic truth about it. That you aren't a separate thing in a separating environment. You are one with it all, the perceptions you have are mental and intrinsic (no division in those two terms). What is is and you are like an event in this realm of being. With God at the heart of it and me.

The burdens I allow myself to bear are rooted in my momentary ignorance and perceived separation. So it's a matter of worrying about the future. Instead of just being rooted in God right now and letting those other moments come when they come. Jesus says not to worry about tomorrow, that today has enough evil to contend with. By worrying about the future I'm trying to contend with all the evil in advance, of which most of it will turn out to have been imaginary anyway.

But what if I can't help it? That's the condition I'm in, or at least I was in before I started this post, which is a matter of spurring me to a greater psychic discipline, to overcome the feeling of dread I've had all day. If my life is in flux, so be it. It's bound to be. There's no security anyway in the sense of making everything perpetually OK.

I was thinking of something I read by Alan Watts one time about security and insecurity. In fact I was trying to explain it to someone today, and I might've put my own spin on it because I don't remember Watts' whole thing -- I never actually got the book fully read, like most books. The sense of security is false. The sense of insecurity leads to creativity and greater potential outcomes.

My feeling is one of wanting security and wanting to cling to it. So when things are in flux -- with many challenges lying ahead -- I want to shut down. Not eat, etc. That's no good. It doesn't help that last night I couldn't get to sleep until much later than my bedtime. I'm usually so dependable about falling asleep, but with these things hanging over my head -- which must be unspecified -- I was keyed up.

I will be done with this in a couple of minutes. Then I will get my Bible and start meditating upon some truths. Then some quiet, not clamoring prayer. Not even necessarily with words. But a sort of longing, welcoming silence. I hope with enough of that, something between five and 20 minutes, that I'll get my appetite back. I know I must be hungry, if I didn't have this terrible knot in my gut.

A child of God is denying himself his full place in God's care and provision by maintaining distance and a state of worry. Anything I'm facing can be left in God's hands. "Cast your burdens upon God, for God cares for you."

It's all true. Even if you can't fathom a big character up in the sky somewhere sitting on a throne, the germ of the thing is reality. "Cast your burdens upon God..." etc.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

There's not much more to say about the literal Vernon Hoff, female impersonator. What can I say?

As much as we would wish for biographical details, etc., it seems they are not to be had. And anyway, what is a biography, except just a collection of ultimately unsatisfactory details? Every time you read a massive biography, what's the one thing you think of when you get to the last page? So what.

But I know I wish I had more details about Vernon Hoff's life. But looking at it in terms of a biograph, I already know I'm no worse off if I don't have them. If I had them, I'd diligently study them, collect them, put them in order, and archive them. And it'd be a biography. Then what? I'd sit back, look at it, and say, So what.

And what good does it do us to archive things? We're just looking for more things to archive, sometimes just for the sake of archiving it, and it all falls short of real life.

The key to real life is to live it now. And the key to really living it now is to have some inner impetus, an inner drive, hat longs to come forth, and does come forth. Whether you call it your inner Vernon Hoff, your inner Elvis Presley, your inner piranha, your inner gypsy, your inner whatever, it's the real you -- or the you that is real at any particular moment -- that makes life what it is, an experience.

Today I'm thinking of my potential inner Vernon Hoff. Which is nothing extensive, because it's not even Vernon, it's me. Everything I know about Vernon Hoff's biography is in these few little snippets. Big deal. But I know that what resonates in me with them in even a surface way is the key thing.

Every flashy thing you do, every glimpsing of whim and verve, every fanciful thought and flash of the joy of living -- whether it's conventional or unconventional, authorized or unauthorized, boundary pushing or not, transgressive or not -- can come forth.

When you hear of those who are transgressive, in the sense of crossing boundaries, usually you think of those who are flagrant about it, flamboyant. But it's surely just as satisfying, in some sense, to be quiet, sedate, modest, prim, proper, and withdrawn. One size doesn't fit all.

Sit in front of your mirror and look at your sweater. That's fun too, an experience.

Monday, February 15, 2010

This is perhaps my very last post on Vernon Hoff, female impersonator. It's sad that my blog is one of the internet's premier websites for information on Vernon Hoff, the other being Google Books' archives of Billboard magazines, where I got my information.

It would be a lot better, in my opinion, if there was a whole vast library of items about him. Because I'm fascinated about the whole scene, what it must have been like for him to be a female impersonator. I'm looking at his little picture, the only one I know of, even though he advertised four 8" x 10" photographs, and you'd have to assume that meant four different ones, and he reminds me of Lucille Ball with darker hair. I don't know if that's a veil, a shroud, or exactly what it is going up behind him. But it looks very sheer, and no doubt was beautiful.

Anyway, how interesting that is, and how interesting Vernon Hoff probably was. Although, who knows, the touring, the staying in Dayton for eight weeks, then going somewhere else with his suitcases and outfits, might have been tough. I was just reading today about Elvis on his endless tours before he was super famous. The guys driving, the whole crew, including Elvis were dead tired, and even checking into the hospital. That's life on the road. It's not all glamor.

Just imagining Vernon Hoff's experiences, though, there'd be a whole other side to it, the sexual side of it, and perhaps that was a little seamy.

I notice he mentions in this one ad that he is "straight." I assume, given the whole context, of course, that that would be a constant question, at least something people would be wondering about. As far as possibly getting beat up, etc., by twisted patrons, I'm guessing he probably escaped most of that, because I'm guessing he wasn't dressed like a woman all the time, just the times when he went out on stage and did his act. Away from the stage, he could probably pass basically unnoticed.

Speaking of Elvis, it's hard to believe, but he got in his share of fights on these little two-bit tours. The thing there was the jealousy of teenage boys because girls were so crazy for him. I used to read some of the magazines my mom had about Elvis in the '50s, and they'd mention a few times about some fight he was in. But you get the impression -- I do -- that later his entourage was vigilant enough that it'd be rare for someone to throw a punch at him. I'm not picturing much of an entourage for Vernon Hoff. Just a guy carrying a couple of suitcases. Or at the best, a wife or girlfriend or some other friend, like a small time manager helping him out.

I'm intrigued by this ad, that Vernon is "The Answer to Gorgeous George!" I've heard of Gorgeous George but don't know much about him. Just looking over at Wikipedia, I knew he was a wrestler, but it says there he was "flamboyant and charismatic," and known as a "glamour boy," being "gorgeous."

Vernon as the "answer" to George, no doubt meant as a guy also glamorous and gorgeous who just happened to make a very beautiful woman. So you'd have George as a man who was the ideal man, in this little theory, and Vernon as a man who was the ideal woman. In appearance.

Also look at the place where Vernon was playing, where he was getting his mail that week, at the "Blue Turban" in Long Beach, California. That definitely sounds like an exotic place!

Well, friends, in the absence of more concrete information on Vernon Hoff, female impersonator, I guess I might have to pack it up. I'd love to go on and on about him, but what more can I surmise or say?

I'm going to put a few key words here, just for the sake of the search function. Not that I'm trying to lure traffic here, really, but because the more people who would happen to be interested and see this post, the more likely it is that someone with actual information about Vernon Hoff (or items like photographs, etc.) would come forward. Please let me know if you see anything. Words: cross-dressing, crossdressing, transvestite, transvestism, any others come to mind? We already have female impersonators, female impersonation, so I guess that about covers it.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

I'm going to write this very slowly and thoughtfully today. Usually I'm rushing along because I want to get done and get on to something else. But I think Vernon Hoff deserves some thoughtfulness. It's such a beautiful subject. And I want to allow my mind to explore the subject, as much as is possible.

I do already feel what I always feel, that I'm not fully equal to the task at hand. That a task as great as this deserves and demands more than I can accomplish is always my big fear. But there's no one else around who wants to do it, which to me is very sad. What I would love to have is a ready made site to go to to learn more about Vernon. But there's not one that I can find. So you at least are very fortunate, that I (however tentatively and imperfectly) have taken the task upon myself.

I really can't believe I'm the only one who's interested or concerned with Vernon Hoff. If it turns out that I am the only one, that will be very sad indeed. But I definitely am interested in him. And I hope there are others.

If only there were more to learn. I am disappointed that I can't find more out there. What would it take for me to be satisfied? That I don't know. Something more than nothing, for sure. I'd like to have one of the 8" x 10" pictures, for example. Maybe a few articles about his show. Maybe some biographical details. If he's alive, where he is. If he's dead, where he's buried. All that sort of thing.

It would seem that Vernon didn't have a permanent address or a family to go home to. His address in the several Billboard ads are always the towns he happens to be in at the moment. So he might've been in New York, Ohio, Texas, California, or somewhere else. And that's where he got his mail.

There are several Vernon Hoffs, presently and in the past, but which one may be this one, I don't know.

He sounds fascinating though, in that he "possesses the grace and action that makes his act so popular!"

He sounds youthful enough. In 1947 he was advertising himself as "Dayton's favorite boy strip tease dancer." So when might he have been born? 1927, thereabouts? Could he be calling himself a "boy strip tease dancer" at 30? Somewhere around 20-25 seems like it'd be understandable.

He was in Dayton for eight weeks at the Ring Cafe. Eight weeks at one cafe. It seems to me something about him would have to pop up in Dayton once in a while, like an 8" x 10" picture at an antique store. Or some old Dayton debauch in a nursing home, an ex-debauch there, would have some old stories to tell about how far Vernon got stripped down before he left the rest to their imagination. The answers are out there, folks, but our chances are passing quickly.

Think of how good you'd have to be to last eight weeks at the same cafe! But someone who can present a "Symphony in curves, sex appear personified!" and be a "Frisque singer," has obviously got what it takes, not only to pack them in but be memorable ... even at this late date.

So I'm hoping against hope that someone out there will know something more about Vernon Hoff, and will come out of the very comfortable woodwork to fill me in, me who wasn't even born at the time of Vernon's hottest moves.

Look at this cute ad. Vernon's act must've had some choice humorous bits as well as the sexy stuff. He did an original parody, "Chiquita Banana, the fruit song, show stopper." It says that's a quote from a critic. That would've been great. I think it would've been really cool to see. Or hear about now.

If anyone knows anything definite about Vernon Hoff, female impersonator, please contact me through this blog. I don't want to put an ad in Billboard, but if I have to ... I might have to!

Saturday, February 13, 2010

(These graphics are from the Billboard magazine, various issues found on Google search, 1947-49.)

Vernon Hoff doesn't sound like a made-up stage name. He could've called himself something sexy like Tawny Hide, but instead he was Vernon Hoff. So we're looking for an actual Vernon Hoff who matches the basic age there. Not that I would really bother Vernon, were he still to be alive. Because I wouldn't.

The first ad I discovered on this list of graphics was the "WANT FEMALE IMPERSONATOR" ad for the Ring Cafe, which is from Billboard, 9-27-47, p. 42. I was thinking, Why do ads have to go out of date? I could print the page, take it to the Ring Cafe (assuming it might've existed this long), and say, "What's this all about? What kind of act are you looking for?"

Grandma's got some reasonably good clothes I could probably fit in. And she definitely has some things from the '40s, among her newer stuff. It's all a matter of whether I want to go as a scrub woman or a grange matron. But I can swing both ways.

A lot of Grandma's old clothes have grass stains from picking dandelion greens over the years. And of course the grandkids getting sick, urping after being fed. Anyway, I get there, and because I can't get the stains out of the clothes, I incorporate them into the act, which is of a hard working middle-aged gal, '30s-'40s vintage, recalling no one in particular, going about her daily routine of drudgery. It's sexy, in an esoteric, working class, 'we're all living in a two room house and still having five kids' kind of way. It worked for Grandpa!

The guy at the Ring Cafe says that was an ad printed by the grandfather of the former owner in 1947 and that they're not looking for anyone in that line of entertainment at this present time. But he offers to take my information and promises he'll get back to me if they are ever looking for someone.

Yeah, right! "We'll get back to you..." I've heard that before! But I need to eat today!

Today I was at the window with my clipboard and microscopes, tapping my watch because no one was showing up. The bus usually comes from the south, but the south was clear. The last couple of days it came from the west, but the west was also clear. As for the pathways, there were no kids to be seen.

Those are the facts as I observed their absence.

Of course my first thought was that everyone called in sick. Including the bus driver. Because I'm not feeling that well myself. I woke up today feeling dizzy and tipsy; I haven't got my normal balance. So I've been stumbling and staggering around. It could be possible, now that I think of it, that I had a stroke and was looking out the wrong window. That was obviously skew the results of the study. That would be an epistemological nightmare really, since there would be no basis for me to trust any of the information that I feel my senses are receiving and processing.

Except I'm sure I was looking out the right window. It's the window facing the street, right? The same one I look out everyday. Being dizzy isn't going to make me that confused. So that can't be it.

The only other possibility I can come up with -- and it's a long shot -- is that school might've been called off today. Like maybe it's a teachers' "in service." I wish we would've had those when I was in school. The kids today, if it's not a snow day it's an "in service" day! So they're sitting home five days out of seven playing video games and inflicting their parents with noise. This is why the younger generation doesn't know a thing about a thing, because the teachers are so busy learning to teach that they never get around to teaching!

So let's say the called off school. Since I don't go to school, there's no reason I should know that. They didn't tell me. But the apparently told everyone else. Leading me to think that my study today isn't all in vain. Because this proves (or suggests) something about the apparent ability of creatures to know their own schedules. If you're scheduled to go to school, you know that. And if it's called off, that you also know.

The apparent intelligence and ability that these parents and kids and bus drivers have is amazing.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Yesterday I wrote on "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures," and I thank you for your curious, scientifically-oriented questions and comments. If I ever get a FAQ page up and running, I will direct you there for the useful, ready made answers I will have written by then.

Today I'm going to come up with a sequel to yesterday's post, since I was able to witness a few more things in regards to the subjects of yesterday's study. Today I'm thinking of "The Apparent Quick Adaptability of Creatures."

I was halfway expecting this. I'm glad that the bus comes to pick up the kids at about the same time everyday. Since it's so predictable, I'm able to be in place to see it without much worry about it beforehand. I go to the window at about the right time, the kids are there, and the bus comes. It's all like clockwork.

Yesterday and today both there was a school truck near where the kids normally stand waiting for the bus. Whether that guy's there for this switch in their routine, I don't know. I didn't see him doing any overt motions about what they should do.

Here's the apparent quick adaptability of the kids. Yesterday they were in the place where they've normally been, then had to exercise their apparent intelligence in the light of a different turn of events, the bus coming from a different direction. Today, for the most part, they were prepared for the bus coming from the west instead of the south. Meaning there was a more northerly direction they were facing.

It worked out exactly like that, as sure as anything. They apparently adapted just that quickly. (I use the word "apparently" because I don't know what sort of direction they may have gotten from the bus driver yesterday, or the guy in the truck, or their parents at home, perhaps reading a set of instructions about what their kids should do.)

But remember yesterday when I speculated that there could be the one kid who wouldn't get it right and then would fall on his face in the snow? There was that one kid today! Whether he hadn't adapted, or didn't get the note, or hadn't been present yesterday, I don't know. From my point of view at the window this is all like a silent movie with no subtitles. I myself am trying to adapt to the situation on the ground without the benefit of all my senses, without the benefit of hearing the bus driver, the guy in the truck, or of seeing any possible notes sent home by the school.

He came around front of the truck, like he'd suddenly realized the bus was somewhere different than it usually is. He made a sharp turn, then he slipped and went down! He was out of my view, having fallen behind a snow bank between him and me. I watched, hoping he wasn't hurt. Within 10 seconds, thereabouts, he was up and rushing north to get on the bus. But ... survival of the fittest.

What would be really interesting is if I could somehow observe him in particular tomorrow, to see whether he also adapts quickly to the situation. But I won't be able to tell which one he is, unless he doesn't adapt and falls again. My assumption would be -- unless he is a complete boneheaded nitwit -- that he will expect the bus to come from the west tomorrow.

It does my old heart good to see the way the younger generation of human beings deals with things. They are apparently just as quickly adaptable to changing circumstances on the ground as we were back when I was a kid.

I saw something today that really gave me an appreciation for the apparent intelligence of creatures, myself included.

Sometimes I think I'm a little dull, a little slow on the uptake. Someone will be spelling a word, let's say, and I'll need them to go very slowly, then repeat it, because I can't keep track of letters (that well) when they're given in a sequence quickly. Just last night, as an example, I had to listen to a podcast 10 times to get the URL for http://rcrdlbl.com/. Someone says it's "r c r d l b l" and I'm not expecting it, I'm like, "What?!" (In case you're worried that might take you to a site that would rip you off, it won't. It stands for Record Label and is a place where artists post their songs.)

Anyway, no matter how dull I am, sometimes I amaze myself by being intelligent. With the creaturely intelligence that appears to be native to all creatures, given their own domain and level of raw ability. Look, I was able to think of that very intelligent description without much aforethought and without memorizing it in advance of writing it. It flowed forth, even though if I wanted to repeat it, I'd have to look at it a dozen times, and I would definitely have a hard time memorizing it.

Today I saw a thrilling display of the apparent intelligence of creatures. I was amazed. It was this:

I look outside in the morning when I'm feeding the cat and getting a bagel. I see the kids gathered across the road, waiting for the bus. The bus always comes from the south. They're standing on the east side of the street, waiting to board the bus through the door, which would be facing east. That's pretty smart of them right there, as they anticipate the bus's approach and depend on the door being in the same place each day. That they even know what a door is and how to use it takes intelligence as well.

(Maybe this isn't that amazing. Even my pets know how to use a door.)

Today, then, something way out of the ordinary happened. And I thought, they are smart! Because of the snow, I guess, the bus came from the west and pulled up on the road facing east. Yet the kids are still standing there, now southerly from the bus. The door will be north of where they're standing.

Every one of those kids recognized it as the bus they were waiting for. Every one of them saw the changed circumstances and immediately adapted. Now, some may have been following the crowd, stupefied by the weirdness of the moment. But just going by the appearance, it looked like each one of them was making an educated move, knowing through their apparent intelligence that they should approach and board the bus like usual, only going in a different direction, as everything about the scene was somewhat different than what they were expecting.

Not one kid was left behind! You might think there'd be at least one kid who would search around for what to do, then walk toward a phantom bus parked where it normally is, lift his leg as though boarding it, and fall flat on his face. But it did not happen!

I stood there at the window, thinking exactly what you're reading here, of how great the apparent intelligence of creatures is.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

There's a whole push -- a movement -- these days, much like the Tea Party movement that is roiling politics and transforming our politicians into Frankenstein monsters. But this new, powerful movement has little to do with politics, fiscal policy, and lapel pins, but with how we honor the dead, or rather the living.

I myself am a part of the "I Want My Flowers Now" movement. It's a push toward getting our flowers now, while we're still alive instead of waiting till we're dead and unable to enjoy them.

Everyone becomes very sentimental as soon as you die. They took you for granted, in most cases. You had your nose to the grindstone and struggled hard just to get by. Everyday was the same. Toil, plodding toil. Punch the clock. Feed the kids. Pay the bills. Fall exhausted into bed at the end of another hard day. Then you finally work yourself into an early grave -- or in some cases you live well and die at a ripe old age -- and everyone sheds a massive tear and gets sentimental. Then the flowers come out, but only then.

So there you are, laying stiff as a board, quiet as a mouse, in your casket. Your eyes are closed tight. Your hands are demurely set in their permanent place. Your skin has been made up. The back of your suit they had to split to get it on you. Every hair's in place for the first time ever. And all around you, it's always the same, heaps and gobs of flowers, flowers draping everywhere, and fancy red banners in place, "Beloved Friend," "Loving Father," "Dearest Mother," "Treasured Son," or "Beautiful Daughter."

Well, I and all the others who are part of the "I Want My Flowers Now" movement hope to change this scene. In other words, please spare us the flowers when we're flat on our back and motionless. We can't enjoy them then! Give us our flowers now! Then, of course, as long as we live, please keep replenishing them as an ongoing flowery tribute to all we mean to you. And we, in return, will also be sending you flowers, sending tributes all along the way, and replenishing them frequently. As much as we can afford.

The florists at first might kick against us. Because most of their business is in the service of the sentimentalized dead. You go to one of their stores and the whole place is geared toward death. They have those sentimental placards that say "If tears could build a stairway, And memories a lane, I'd walk right up to Heaven and bring you home again." It's a very morbid place, you halfway expect to see a zombie at the cash register. But it's always a sweet lady who speaks with a consoling voice, because a full 99% of their customers have just experienced a terrible loss. I was there the other day and everyone averts their glance, because their eyes are red and puffy.

But if the florists came to know our true intentions, which are not to reduce the sale of flowers but to increase them, we'd have them on board very quickly. Because florists, like all good business people, want more customers and more sales. They crave money just like the rest of us. To them it's all about the bottom line.

So, if you want to send me flowers, in honor of my life and not my death, I will give you thanks. I will enjoy them, set them around my room, put them in vases -- the whole bit. But if you wait till I'm dead, then it'll be too late. Much too late.

Monday, February 8, 2010

I got up today thinking I would want a pot of dark, very dark, rich coffee. It's been a while. I've been drinking tea for maybe four or five months. Meaning I haven't made a pot of coffee in all that time.

I have one of the French press coffee pots, with the little metal filter and the other pieces. It was all up in the cupboard, safe and sound ... I thought.

First I got out the coffee grinder and sniffed it. It still had the residue of ground coffee in it and I was wondering if maybe they went bad. I'd hate to be poisoned. Set that aside.

Then I got the coffee pot out and instantly saw a big problem. There was an inch or more of mold build up in the bottom of it, like a fluffy little science project. The metal filter and all that was together and pushed down in the pot and it was molded over as well.

So ... scratch the coffee.

Then I dug in and wasted my free time getting it cleaned out. I'm boiling water to dip it all in and roll it around after I get the mold out. I threw a pot of water with mold in the snow outside. It's a disgusting bunch of filth.

The filter seemed the hardest to clean and I'm still not entirely sure it's completely clean. I see little flecks, but with scrubbing, picking at it with a toothbrush, and boiling, it looks the same, so it's probably harmless by now.

I got it all boiled -- oh, what a terrible thing to happen -- and I was ready. Then the final problem, I couldn't find the coffee. I know I had part of a bag of coffee beans those months ago when I set it all aside. But someone must've stuck it somewhere and I don't know where.

So I didn't get any coffee this morning. Went with a glass of milk and a bagel instead.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

I got these pictures the other day at a thrift store. It must've been a deal where someone in their family (or families) didn't know who they were anymore -- there's no identification given -- so they got rid of them.

Being a kindhearted soul, and knowing that adopted pictures don't eat much, I took them in, with an adoption fee of 50 cents apiece being paid to the attendant.

I think one of them is pretty cute, and I'm not saying which. I don't want to hurt the other's feelings. But the other one has a distinguished look and has nothing to be ashamed of. When I'm that age I hope I look as good!

But however good I think they both look, you can't deny that they look old fashioned. You see the pictures and immediately you think, That was the olden days sometime. Which must have been uncomfortable for them at the time. Walking around with everyone saying, Why the old fashioned look, sister?

I'm just kidding, of course, because back then they all looked like that. They had an old fashioned look because that was the fashion back then before we junked it and did something different. Elvis launched the sexual revolution and we never looked back.

I've got some old timey pictures of me as a kid. There's a picture of me I see almost everyday of me standing by one of Grandpa's Chevys, either a '56 or '57. It's awesome that Grandpa had a '56 Chevy, without him ever dreaming or knowing what they bring at antique car shows now. We'd ride in it without knowing we were riding in a classic.

Another old timey picture -- three different ones, actually -- show me in a baby swimming pool. My parents and I lived right here on Grandma and Grandpa's half acre in a tiny house over by the well. When I say a tiny house I mean it was as small as a house can be and still be a house with people in it. When they took it away it sat on the back of a truck and didn't need a "Wide Load" sign. So that little house is in the background of these pictures of me in the baby pool. And they were taken at just a slightly varying angle, each one, meaning that you can see a stereo image of the house if you hold them side by side and let your eyes drift them together. That thrills me. A stereo image of a house that's not there. It might not be anywhere anymore. Although as an adult, maybe 30-35 years ago, I went to it in the town where the truck took it. It was small. But somehow I didn't take any pictures. Dumb.

The pictures of Grandma and Grandpa taken in olden times show a normal young couple, not knowing what would happen to them in the future. But they looked confident enough to keep living, as indeed they did. One of my favorite pictures of Grandma is of her playing in the snow with a friend. She must be a teenager. She's seen in the picture from the back, like she's darting away from a snowball. It's very vivid. She's in motion, a kid at play. It's the best picture I've ever seen of people where you can't see anyone's face.

Advice to everyone: Mark your pictures. Put your name on there lightly on the back. Otherwise someone will throw them away. Then a guy like me will buy them. And they'll end up on his blog about the olden days.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

I visited another guy's blog a little while ago. We individual people who have our individual blogs need to stick together. It's good that we choose to go to each other's blogs, to look around for a minute or so before leaving. I appreciated seeing his posts. I didn't really read them or get a full sense of it, because I'm very busy with my own life and can't be wasting my time like that.

Anything, the thing that stuck out, that I noticed, was that the guy has something wrong with him. An illness or condition that's serious enough and important enough (apparently) to have not just its own name but an organization for those coping with it, battling it, and explaining it. He had links to it. Maybe it was some kind of mental thing. Or a blood disorder. Or an aversion to particular things in life. I can't remember. I just remember it was something, and something important enough for him to identify with it.

When I see that business about a disease, condition, aversion, or complex big enough and bad enough to identify with, I usually leave. I left in this case. And you might leave now, too, since that's my complex. Part of it. But there's no organization for it that I know of, and I'm not battling or coping with it in an association with other sufferers. I'm not even formally diagnosed, but obviously I am concerned with explaining it, at least sufficiently to get to my point, which is how normal I am.

[A Couple Hours Later -- I may have lost the mojo for this post. Because I got as far as the last sentence above and the phone rang, and a dear friend of mine died and that was someone with the news. This is a true statement. So I've been gone maybe close to two hours. I'll read over what I've got above and try to finish it out, because I thought this was a pretty good post.]

OK, I've always considered myself normal and blessed to be normal. I've always considered myself the right height, the right weight, to have been born in the right place to the right people. When it comes to normal, as far as I'm concerned, I am the standard, I set the pace. It's right, good, and proper, in my opinion, for everyone else to be compared to me to determine the degree of normalcy they enjoy.

I eat particular things, normal food. I think particular things, normal thoughts. I go to all the usual places and do all the usual things. There's nothing abnormal about me, except perhaps the mere face that I am so normal. More so than most people.

Friday, February 5, 2010

That was such a vivid dream I had this morning that I've been thinking about it through the day.

I have this theory, which I may have read once -- perhaps I did, it seems like it -- that dreams should not be remembered. The theory is that the dream is a way of filing things away, consolidating thoughts in the psyche. And that if you hang on to them, the filing system is incomplete and therefore you will be personally hobbled in some way.

For example, you might remember all your dreams. Then something in the filing system up there would lock up. And you'd find yourself hopelessly lost in a dream loop, to the outside world appearing only a maniac who twitches and babbles. It seems like it might be true, since the nature of waking up typically is to immediately forget your dreams. Nature doesn't want you remembering!

Then, though, you get a crystal clear, vivid dream like that, and, try as your might (I didn't try in this case), you can't forget it. It could be that nature intends me to remember this particular one, which is why my nature "forgot to remember to forget," to quote a great song lyric, which was written by Charlie Feathers, if I'm remembering right and haven't forgotten.

So what could the dream of the bombs falling mean?

I would like to put a positive spin on it, but I can think of the negative ones.

Negative -- It could mean that I'm very unhappy. And that I see myself at the center of a disaster -- my life. And that I think when something bad happens, I'm just getting my just desserts. Perhaps I even long for personal destruction, in order to escape. I'm too much of a coward simply to do myself in. So my psyche is telling me to seek out destruction, even looking to the skies for it. If I'm seeking it out, it still happens, which could be because I'm masking my seeking of it. Like I heard a psychiatric acquaintance say one time that he's suspicious whenever anyone has an "accident" on the road, because he thinks it might be simply a way for them to destroy themselves "accidentally." Like suicide by police.

Neutral -- It might not mean anything about me in particular. Just that I was talking to a guy yesterday about the various theories people have about the end of the world. The discussion included some derision about radio religious shows that pinpoint the date for the end, supposedly, then when they're wrong they choose another date and go on as though nothing happened. So my mind was busy filing away our discussion, with the bombs being simply part of the consolidation process. You'll remember what I said to the Sunday School students who were making a paper sculpture out of their lesson book: "Are you pleased with yourself?"

Positive -- I see destruction all around me, but I see myself as a true survivor. I try to maintain as positive an image of myself as I can. Sure, I have problems with it from time to time. But I put a glad face on about everything. I tell my doctor I'm healthy, and he agrees. I tell my life insurance representative I'm the healthiest person in town. I tell him I have a good mental outlook as well. Seeing the bombs makes me a witness to everyone else's foolhardy approach to life, locally and on an international scale. It must be positive, because when the bombs fell that close to me, and the yellow haze engulfed me and my companion, wouldn't that have killed us? Yet I got in my car and drove away and when it came time for me to wake up, I didn't seem to be in any mortal peril.

Whichever one it is -- and I think the "Neutral" one is most likely, if any of them are likely, which isn't likely -- it was definitely vivid and memorable. I hope I don't dream vividly tonight. Just let me sleep and be done with it.

This is part of my dream this morning. I wake up through the night, look at the clock, then fall back to sleep. I looked at the clock a little after 4 a.m. and got up at 5:30, so this dream happened between then. Closer to 5:30, since I was still working on the whole aftermath when the alarm went off.

I was at a place in my town. My car was there and a companion. I looked up the street and saw big bombs, shaped like bombs are, with those things at the back that are like feathers on an arrow but are metal. The bombs were white with some red insignia on them, like decoration, nothing nefarious.

By the time I saw the bombs, they were within 100 or 50 feet of the ground. They weren't moving in real time, I'd say, since I had a little time to think through some things. But it was quick, since I can think a lot of a short amount of time.

I was thinking it's too late to make a run for it, that if I'd had some advance notice I would be in the car and away from there, but now it's too late -- it goes without saying, it goes without thinking. In an instant, they hit the ground. I couldn't see them land because the street I was looking up had the upper part of a hill and they were behind it somewhere, like maybe 100-200 yards from me.

There wasn't a terrible explosion, but what I might call a muffled explosion. The thing that impressed me was the change in the color of the air between here and there and the way the color spread toward us quickly. Like a creamier, yellowish color in the air coming this way. I was thinking that it would be bad for us.

After that we got in the car and headed west. The bombs were east.

But we never got out of town. We were still in town, still with people we know, talking it over, very worried and anxious. But I still had a sense of humor about it, although I was very worried about the after effects that it would have for me and us.

I came into a room and there were some guys sitting on the front and second rows of some chairs. They were there for Sunday School. I wondered where the guy was who normally lead them. He was off in another room. They had cut their lesson book in many places and made a paper sculpture out of it. I said to one guy, they guy holding it, "Are you pleased with yourself?" In a joking way.

That's basically what I remember about the dream. It's been close to five hours ago, so much of it is fizzling out of my memory.

About the bombing, I had some vague recollection that this was going to happen, like people knew it was going to happen. Maybe they told us a couple months ago. But I hadn't kept track, hadn't remembered, hadn't noted the time and place, or I wouldn't have been there.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

In my seemingly constant campaign, "Drive for Pride," I've hammered away at the things that make for confidence, self-esteem, and pride.

This is no time for a review, but of course a key part of the whole thing is how you think. The "Drive" has as part of its purpose to bring forth good thoughts. I think I've insisted on it from time to time. Because without that we're forever stuck in a rut. The things we tell ourselves are critical.

I know in my life so many of the things I've told myself have been downright disgusting. Especially in hindsight, but I thought they were disgusting at the time as well. I've been my own worst critic, it seems. But somewhere back there, I put most of it behind me and changed my thoughts. That doesn't mean I'm completely over it, with relapses happening occasionally.

The self-loathing, self-questioning, self-doubts, everything, got to be so great, I'd wake up in the middle of the night in weird dream loops, my pajamas drenched in sweat. My eyes were bugged out. I was sweating bullets. I felt about myself then what I feel about Republicans now. It was a bad scene.

What happened for me, I may as well say it, was that I put a lot of these feelings to the test. What part of me was doing the loathing, the questioning, and having the doubts? If there was a part of me that was separate and had these opinions about what was wrong, why wasn't I living from that place instead of having a separate critical stance.

Of course none of this is literal; it's mental. If there's this part of you up here that knows better, what if you just thought from that point of view all the time, or all the time you could manage it. This has some religious overtones, so for me I also check out some verses from the Bible, chapters, with meditation and some serious psychological orientation coming from those teachings.

See how they can be combined? What is of God, in this way of thinking, is what your highest part is saying anyway, the part that knows better. If you can take the time and work up a little discipline toward consolidating some of this stuff, that's when you can see some progress. It works, as imperfect as things are.

So for the better qualities, the self-esteem, etc., it matters what "truth" you live by. Is your "truth" simply what bogs you down? Or is your "truth" what lifts you up? That's the way to do it!

NOTE: Since this is a serious post today, let me say that I pretty much believe what I wrote above. I can't think of any of it I don't believe. But it's fictional to say I was bogged down in self-loathing, etc. That's the "character" of my blog. There have been times, like probably most people have experienced. But there wasn't a time when it was all one way, then a sudden switch. I actually do do some spiritual discipline things regularly, but not as much as would be good for me.

There actually is a spiritual/psychological side of life that, if tended to, generally will make things go better for the average person. Of whom I am one.

I just happened to be serious tonight. I'll try to get back to my crazy character, if I can manage it.